


Hell-Forsaken

by Meltingpotlady



Series: V-adjacent Seduce Me AU [1]
Category: Seduce Me the Otome - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Gore, Multi, Violence, canon-bending, death mention, friend-adjacent AU, mental health is definitely ruined, project to get me back in the habit of fanfic writing, really rough reentry into fanfic writing bear with me, taking a break from novels, this is for all my friends in the discord chat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-07-18 03:55:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16110272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meltingpotlady/pseuds/Meltingpotlady
Summary: (A rewrite of a fave but badly written otome) Trying to navigate the murky road of grief was hard enough alone, but the with the intrusive addition of five incubi, it was going to be nearly impossible. At least now, I'm not alone.





	1. The Worst Kind of First Impressions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Taijitu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taijitu/gifts).



Chapter 1: The Worst Kind of First Impressions  
Or, not how I expected to break the smooch drought

It doesn’t go how the game describes it—the lack of consent, lack of suspense and lack of authenticity demands fixing—it’s more shocking, bloody, chaotic, but ultimately, still steamy as the nature of the game requires. Consumed with the mounting depression over the passing of my mother, as well as rage over being sent to live in her house alone by my father, I would be barely present as I gathered my bags from the trunk of the car. 

There’d be no ‘I love you’s. Instead, instruction, “Keep the place clean, focus on your schoolwork, don’t lose yourself to grief. Life goes on and so must you, remember the blood you carry.” 

And I’d stand at the window, shouldering way too many bags to be healthy for a body as small as mine. I’d have no real expression, I’d nod, try to make my face even stonier if I can. Then, about-face and slowly plod into the house, listening to the truck’s engine rev and the wheels crunch on the gravel as it leaves. I don’t open the door as much as I shove it open once it’s unlocked. I need to get all the heavy bags off. I don’t even see the bodies on the floor, but I can smell the blood and sweat.

Finding five bloody bodies on my foyer is definitely enough to warrant a scream, a frantic turn outside to call for my Dad who I know is long gone. The next logical step would be the call the police, but as a black woman with anxiety and an idiot who packed her phone deep within her luggage, that’s a step I’ll have to skip. I channel the remnants of my mother, who was a skilled veterinarian in her life, and the many surgeries I’d watched as a child. I’ll have to do as much as I can to stabilize these men, and when I go beyond my experience, I’ll risk the search for my phone and the police.

They’re all breathing, shallow and slow. The bloody mess tells me they’re nearing a critical lack of blood, but the flow is slow thanks to the heavy air conditioning, sticky with some coagulation. I can get to my first aid kit quicker than my phone, so I rummage through to find the small but deep blue box, trying my damnedest not to go into a panic over the smell. At least there’s no guts around. I can handle blood, but when people bits are outside their natural place, I hit my limit. 

Soft groaning catches my attention, then the slow shift of fabric and skin on wet tile. I whip my head around to see vacant green eyes attempting to focus on me. They flash gold, making my limbs move outside of my mind. I lean over his body, hands shaking. 

“Can you speak?” I whisper, feeling meeker than I’d felt even at the funeral.  
“Woman, you’re gonna, gonna lemme kiss you.” In the pained pause that follows, I don’t notice that his hand has grabbed my forearm, surprisingly tight. 

I frown, survey his pale (but handsome) face, then the blood-stained clothes, originating from the lower torso. I might not be able to save him, and this, for some reason, is his last request. I’m not made of stone, I can give him this. 

“Sure.” And his hand now plasters to my cheek, cold, smearing my skin with blood, and pulls me down. It’s very fast how he does so, fast enough that I can’t be overcome with hesitation or fear. I angle my head at the last second so our noses don’t squish. His lips are colder than his hand and cracked. The taste of someone else’s blood almost makes me want to retch. 

And yet, after a few seconds, it’s doing all sorts of good things to my lower gut. We share breaths, he breathes in as I breathe out. His hand settles to cup my neck instead of my cheek, and I rest my hand over his chest, leaning closer. We pick up a rhythm, and it’s then I feel something very real rise and push its way out from my chest. But it doesn’t come with the tell-tale burn of stomach acid or vomit, it doesn’t come with any nausea, but a warmth, a pleasant tingle. I’d never been kissed like this before, and even if I hadn’t been under a kiss drought, I’m sure nobody could get this reaction from me. 

When this…sensation passes from my mouth at my next exhale, green-eyes breathes it in like he was practiced in this sort of thing. Like he was expecting it. I can’t decide what my reaction should be. At some point, this guy should’ve fallen unconscious and died, right? That’s the whole point of this kiss, so he could die with some pleasure and company. Of course, I’m not going to pull away, I didn’t want to, that would be stupid to deny him more of this. 

“Sam. Let her go.” This ragged voice, somehow older, doesn’t surprise me nearly as much as I thought it should. I still flinched, but not backward, rather forwards, trying to hide away so I could kiss this guy longer. Green eyes also startled a bit, and I noticed he was warmer than before. He grunted, annoyed, then slid his tongue over my lip in a way that had me weak in the knees. I’d never liked tongue action in my kisses, but I’d definitely make an exception for him. 

“Sam. That’s enough.” Definitely annoyed, but seemingly sated, Green eyes obeyed the voice and pulled away, his throat moving in a swallow as another bauble of feeling slid out of me. He wasn’t perfect, but he was far from death’s door. His skin was no longer the color of my white socks and I could see that his blood flow had stopped—no, the wound (it looked like a wicked grapeshot spray) had closed, albeit still heavily bruised. 

We both turned to find the source of the voice, another man had woken up, looking just as bad as green eyes was supposed to be currently. Despite his absolutely terrible state, he managed to look disappointed, almost like he was about to scold the other. “Sam—”

“Don’t try to gimme shit, James, I was bleeding out. We’re all fucking bleeding out! What, did you think I was gonna let us all die for your stupid sense of ‘manners’?” 

I moved away from the yelling, taking the obvious differences between the two men, and the three others that were also slowly coming to. The four of them were all in various states of meeting death, but I could tell none were as bad as Green eyes. That wasn’t a great reassurance. 

Slowly inserting myself back into the quickly building argument, I raised my hands, now shaking and stared the newly awoken man down.

“Look, if you weren’t all bleeding on my floor, I’d be cross, too, but did he just do some magic shit that fixed him? All from kissing me?” I jerked my thumb behind me to green eyes. The other—noticeably taller, with dark hair that was matted and soaked with blood—swallowed roughly and nodded. 

I pointed at him. “Does that work for the rest of you?” Another nod and I scurried my way over, grabbing his shirt tightly. 

“Then kiss me, you idiot! If this is what’s gonna save y’all from death, then you have my consent! We can figure this out later!” I heard a soft ‘Shit, seriously?’ from green eyes, and in response, I tightened my hands on my new target’s shirt. 

“Please, just lemme help you. I don’t want any more death on my hands.” As the others began to become more coherent, I could hear more groans of pain, telling me they were only getting worse. That seemed to bring the other one to sense, his eyes burning the same gold that had happened before. Both of his hands came to support my jaw as he surged forward. He kissed like a starving, desperate man, but still with so much skill. It was just like before, we kissed until a rhythm established, then, in little baubles magic rose from my chest and passed into him with every exhale and inhale. 

I was hyperaware of that feeling, try as I might not to be. It would’ve been easier to focus on the physical, on how this one liked to nibble my lip to get my mouth to open, how he seemed to want to bend me in half as his strength returned and he rose to his knees. Already he towered over me. When he let me go, he was stable, if not a little more stable than green eyes. The pain and fear in his eyes had become gratefulness and genuine concern. For me, for the others, probably both. 

“James, hurry up, Matthew’s gonna keel over any fucking second.” We looked over, and sure enough, there was another man, propped up by green eyes, blinking blearily at me. His eyes seemed to glitch from blue to gold, trying to work. I moved on instinct, scooting over on my hands and knees until I could cradle his face and tilt mine up to meet his. Again, the same pattern, and when the sensation inside me grew too much I switched to the physical feeling. This one was vocal, taking each bauble of healing with a grateful hum. 

Then I was passed to another for a fourth go, and another for the last. All five stable, shakily getting to their feet, I did the same, my clothes now as messy as theirs, panting as if I’d run a marathon. My lips were vaguely tingling with the lingering magic, though they were most likely also bruised. My chest hurt something fierce. My tinnitus almost cut off the entirety of my right side’s hearing. Five pairs of eyes looked at me with curiosity and concern, but mostly gratefulness. I was their savior. I had done for them what I couldn’t for my mother, and I hoped that, wherever her spirit was, she was proud of me. 

“Everybody good?” I gasped, seeing twinkling white spots at the corners of the room. Five heads nodded, and I let go. “Great. Somebody try to catch me, I’m—” 

Passing out.


	2. Aftershock

Chapter Two: Aftershock  
Or, where I have a panic attack but it’s fine 'cause I get a gift out of it

Waking up after a hard faint is droves more disorienting than a nap that went on for too long. It comes with a migraine and vision that’s blurred at the edges. My tinnitus is coming out swinging, louder in my right ear than my left, creating a two-toned screech. My chest still aches with each fast thud of my anxiety-ridden heart. I’m barely awake and already want to dissociate into the ninth plane, my limbs buzzing with pins and needles. If this is what falling out is like, I never want to do it again. I’ve usually always managed to stop myself right at the swoon.

The bed I’m in is familiar, it smells like my mother’s. It’s comfortable, with her many foam squares and the under scent of our dogs and cats. It’s these memories that prevent me from turning away from the window and going back to sleep. To avoid crying into the pillows, I focus on my body. I need to pee, and also check for any knots on my head. 

Secondly, there is a man in the room. He’s at the farthest corner, leaning heavily on the wall like he, too, had been asleep. His clothes are stained a ruddy brown, with holes revealing a scarred belly and upper thigh. They’re vital clues for recalling why I’d fallen out in the first place.

A glance at his face tells me this isn’t green-eyes (Sam? There were lots of names thrown about). That doesn’t comfort me nor particularly worry me right now. I can’t afford to feel too much these days. My throat’s much too dry to speak, so I make enough noise getting out of bed to wake up my watcher instead. He blinks slowly at me, making a once-over of my body in a way that is clearly checking on my wellbeing. I appreciate it. I notice that my clothes are also stained, but after a panicked yank of the sheets, I’m glad to know the bed isn’t. 

“Do you need help moving? I was pretty sure I caught you before you hit anything, but if something hurts, I can help you.” The watcher’s voice is soft, gentle with me. Considering the migraine, it’s particularly soothing. I wave off his concern, pointing to the door that leads to the bathroom. He follows my point, then steps aside. 

After a thorough self-examination, I’m assured of no damage to my head or my body, and I can pee in peace. That peace only lasts as long as I’m in the bathroom, though, and I’m ready to cry as soon as I open the door and see my watcher again. He seems to sense my oncoming distress and puts his hands out to touch me. Only, this time I’m not overcome with compassion and the need to save lives, and I’m very aware that touching these men does some kind of magic transfer. So, I flinch back, one hand coming up to sternly force distance. 

“I’m not having any of that today. How long have I been out, anyway?” Despite how long it takes me to stutter out the question, and my frayed tether to reality, I can always fall back on my childhood discipline. Stay rational, gather information, handle the situation. Only seek help when I know for sure I can’t handle it. Even then, try to handle it. 

“Noted. You were out for the whole day, it’s tomorrow afternoon now.” He nervously runs a hand through his hair, standing a respectable distance away, but still close enough that if something should happen, he can act. That’s reassuring. He smiles, almost at the instant I finish that thought. 

“Where are the others? Have you been watching me sleep the whole night?” I start walking around the room, searching for my luggage, which I find on the other side of the bed. Grabbing the first bag within reach, I ignore the sore stings of my muscles to haul it on the bed. I’m pretty sure this one has my phone, just barely charged to stay working. I play with calling the police, but that natural anxiety over having police over has me decide against it. These guys owe me their lives, they wouldn’t try anything. Or, if they did, I knew the layout of my house better than them, I could use it to my advantage.

“No, no, just maybe the last hour or two. I wasn’t sure when you’d get up. James is making brunch, and the others are waiting for us in the dining room. Cute pets by the way,” he says around a chuckle, and when I look back his way, sure enough, one of my cats is enjoying a good scratch under the chin. It cheers me up a good bit to see them interact. 

“Yeah, well, you’re lucky I raised them to be nice,” I tease, putting my phone to the side to fish out new clothes. “Step out for a sec, I’m gonna change.” 

“O-oh! Right, of course. Of course, you’d wanna get out of bloody clothes…” he seems surprised that that would be an issue, but promptly leaves and shuts the door behind him. In different circumstances, I’d think of him as a precious sort of guy, the kind that would be good to hug and share naps. Changing into some old shorts and a solid green tank, I also throw a thin hoodie on, so I have a pocket to put my phone in. 

When I open the door, I noticed that my watcher’s clothes have also changed. Not in style, but they’ve mended themselves and the stains are gone. They can do other magic besides smooch healing?

“Sure can! Easy stuff, really.” I jump, staring wide-eyed. “How did you hear that? You some kind of psychic?” 

He has the decency to look apologetic about it, not meeting my eyes. “Something like that. I’ve always been able to read minds unprompted. The others can do other extra stuff, too, different from my set, but still—oh! Are you alright?”

I’ve lost all feeling in my legs, plopping on the floor hard. The anxiety has reached a brimming point with that information. Read minds? Fucking seriously? And the others can do other shit? The casual way he said it; the fear that there was no hiding, at least from him, was too much to handle so soon. Hell, I couldn’t even be sure there wasn’t a mess of blood on my floor, or that they were waiting for me with less than good intentions. Too much, too much, even for my suppression system to handle. 

Suddenly, I wasn’t on the floor. The odd feeling of being held forced me to focus on the texture of my watcher’s clothes, the faint press of his muscles into my skin where he held most of my weight. He was rocking me slightly, trying to settle my racing thoughts. 

“Hey, hey now, you’re ok. Focus on the sound of my voice, the tangible things. Can you look at me to show you can hear me?” I knew how the recovery process went, and so as soon as I was able to stop blankly staring at my balled-up hands, I fixed my eyes to his.

They were a soothing, light blue that rested somewhere on the gradient of blue to purple. Periwinkle? That was a color, right? It would work. There was no gold flash, just his genuine gaze. He smiled again when I followed his guide, and he kept at it, getting me to get some control of my fingers and toes, breathing box breaths, until the only worry I had was how I’d get to the dining room. My legs were still a bit shaky, despite soothing the anxiety down. 

“I don’t mind carrying you, that is if you don’t mind being carried, miss,” he offered, and I readily accepted. I was touch-starved anyway, and he was warm and broad, solid. 

“Thanks…” “Damien.” I rested my head on his shoulder, his cue to start walking. Damien was his name. I didn’t know many nice Damien’s, so he would be easy to remember.

When we got to the kitchen, I could smell the pop of bacon over everything else. The tall one—James, most likely—was transferring them from skillet to a paper-towel covered plate. Nice, a guy who could cook.

We briefly passed—without catching his attention—into the dining room that connected to both the kitchen and the living room. It was here I wiggled to be put down, and Damien didn’t hesitate to carefully lower me. “Thanks again, Damien. Sorry for all of…that.” 

He pat my head once, then rested his hand on my shoulder. It was nice, heavy sort of weight that didn’t feel threatening. “It was no trouble.” 

We shared an exhale and then he was moving towards the table to sit. Also sitting there were Sam and another, smaller-looking man. He had to be around my age, at least physically. He was fiddling with a small, white, rabbit-shaped toy, but he also didn’t seem to be directly touching it? 

I wasn’t wearing my glasses, so I blamed my blurry squint-sight. But, there was no doubting the very literal gold ‘poof’ of magic that came off the white toy when he was done with it. The toy twitched, then bounded off the table towards me. I scurried back to get away from it at first, falling onto the sofa behind me. The toy climbed up and sat on my stomach, sitting placidly. I recognized it to be one of my cat’s play toys, still a bit dusty and stained from lack of attention. 

My fear went away, but not my alarm. This was a cat’s toy just a moment ago! Now it was alive! Adorable, and apparently docile, but alive! “Um, hello there.” I reached a finger out to pet it, and it moved to butt its head against my hand. That was all it took to get me enamored with the thing, smoothing my palm down its back and up again. 

“Glad you like it! Gladder you’re awake and unharmed! I’m Matthew.” I looked up to see Matthew smiling wide, the picture of boyish charm. And also, a morning person. A migraine I was trying to ignore was coming back with a vengeance. I winced and looked away, as he was standing in the same direction the sunlight was coming in from. 

The toy hopped away to wherever the hell, and I sat up slowly, rubbing at my temples to quell some of the aches. I was lucky this migraine was minor and only light weak. My mother had them worse, I remember having to soundproof her room some days. Matthew tutted with concern and sat next to me, his hands lightly framing my head. 

“You alright? I hope you didn’t hit your head.” He lowered his voice, thankfully.   
“Just a headache. A leftover from passing out, I’d imagine,” I grumbled.   
“Oh, I can fix that no problem. Lemme.” Matthew replaced my hands with his on my head, and a warm tingle seeped into the thin skin. Instantly, my headache was cleared, and I could breathe a little easier. 

“Better?” He tilted his head to the left, his face the symbol of empathy.  
“I feel a little less like I wanna die, so thanks, my guy,” I was sincere, but my general anxiety over the apparent abilities of these men had come out. He took it in stride though, patting my knee. 

“Nice rhyme, there!” I dabbed on instinct, and he burst into more giggles.   
“You do that, too! The others always make fun of me for it.” Matthew did a quick dab and we laughed together. Again, I was sure that in different circumstances, we would’ve made quick friends.

“Anyway, the food’s ready, I know you gotta be hungry.” Matthew gestured to the table and I had never felt more ravenous in my life. “Definitely.” 

I made quick work of heading to the table and sitting cross-legged on the old cushion. Sam lifted his head from the table top and stared at me flatly. “Glad you didn’t die. Less of a mess that way.” 

My reaction was instant: a flat face and a sharp bite, “Oh no, you’re an ass.”


	3. The Shady Brunch

Chapter Three: The Shady Brunch  
Or, where I almost throw hands, eat bacon, and get stuck with housemates

Sam’s reaction is also instant: a scowl and a huff as he sits up proper. “Hey! Don’t start something you can’t finish!” 

Just as I set to get up to let him have a good dose of my angry, messy shouting, James’ voice from the kitchen cuts me off, “Sam, we had this talk already! Don’t antagonize the lady of the house!” 

Sam’s head whips to the cut-out wall window that acts as a second connection from kitchen to the dining room. “Fuck off!” Then it whips back to me. 

“Look, thanks for saving us or whatever, but don’t think I’m gonna grovel like the others. If you hadn’t been willing, this wouldn’t have gone as easy as it did.” 

I recoil, the bluntness of his sentence angering me more than the backhanded compliment, not to mention the definitely not ok implications of his words. But, I know how to argue and turn my words into spitfire, so I do.

“First off, I wasn’t going to ask you to grovel. Second off, I’m not the one to fuck with, ass hat! You dunno me, and I dunno you, so it’d do you some good not to make an enemy of me.” 

He growls, literally growls, at me, and I bare my teeth at him. Savagery is something I’m very familiar with, and if he wants to test it, I won’t back down.

James, once again, comes to the rescue, the plate of bacon in one hand while he whips Sam’s head with the other. It makes a satisfying smack, the wind of it making Sam’s hair flip a bit. He sulks in his seat and James calmly sets the plate down. He gives me an apologetic look, not quite smiling, not quite frowning. 

I settle my face from the battle-ready snarl to something more neutral. It’s clear who the leader of these men are, and I am much better suited to conversing with James than Sam. “Thanks for that. If you hadn’t done it, I would’ve.” 

He huffs a snort and adjusts his glasses, then turns to head back to the kitchen. My need to help and get away from Sam prompts me to follow, as well as dismiss James’ insistence that I sit and relax. “This is my home, after all, I can set the table faster than any of you can.” 

The kitchen is full of primed breakfast food, though there is also a stack of sandwiches to the side. It’s more food than I know what to do with. I can only guess these guys eat a lot and hope that I’ll have enough money to go shopping later in the week. While I help James plate food to be sent out, we talk. 

“I apologize about Sam. He’s shoddy at even casual conversation, especially when he’s stressed. We haven’t had the best luck as of late,” James starts, scooping gravy into a large bowl while I arrange biscuits on a serving platter. 

“That’s a mood. But still, he didn’t have to make it sound like that. Like…he’d have forced me into kissing you all if I wasn’t naturally cooperative. Just ‘cause I don’t like the police doesn’t mean I won’t get them involved if he thinks to act out his threat.” I put the last biscuit down harder than I meant to, and it gets squished.

James’ responding hum is nervous, I can tell, so I soften my next set of words. “I’m glad y’all have seemed to make a full recovery, though.” I hand the platter of biscuits to Matthew. 

On to the eggs now, James smiles warmly at me. I find it fits his face rather well. He looks like he doesn’t get to smile very often. Neither does Sam, for that matter. “All thanks to you, miss. I can’t express how grateful I am to you for saving my brothers and I.” 

“Wait, you’re all brothers?” Now that I think about it, they do have some similar features. Their noses, for one, and the shape of their lips. The thought makes me miss my own brother, stuck living with my dad. I’ll only see him on the weekends from now on. Less than that when school starts again. 

To fight the melancholy, I focus back on James. “You must be the eldest, then.” I nudge his hip with mine, though with how tall he is and how short I am, I actually nudge his thigh.

He chuckles and nods, shrugs a bit. “You’d be correct. I’m the eldest, followed by Erik, Sam, Matthew, and Damien.” I recall all but one. “Which one’s Erik?”

“That would be me, princess,” answers a voice much too close to my ears. I shriek and wheel about to punch the source. Erik goes down sprawling to the sound of my shout and James’ annoyed “Erik!” He recovers right after though, cradling his jaw that’s blooming with a new bruise. As soon as it colors, it’s gone, healed in a moment. It irks me. 

“Fuck’s sake, dude! I got bad hearing, you can’t just get all up in my space from nowhere!” I scold, giving him a good shove to make my point firm. I become aware of an ache in my wrist after the fact. I must’ve punched him wrong, and now my wrist is smarting. This only worsens my irritation.

“Of course, my apologies, princess. I assumed you were aware of me since I was in the kitchen with you for quite some time,” he tried to excuse himself, rubbing away the phantom pain of my right hook. James gives him a withering glare, grumbling his brother’s name.

“Well, clearly I wasn’t. Also, don’t call me ‘princess’. You sound condescending as hell. My name’s Déjà. If you’re just absolutely compelled to not call me that, it better be anything but ‘princess’ you hear?” He swallows tightly but doesn’t test me any further. Instead, he smiles, not as creepy or as forced, but still putting up a wall. 

“Understood, dear.” With a heavy roll of my eyes, I hand him the plate of waffles I was working on, and James also hands him the eggs. I turn back to James, holding the actual plates and he a large jug of orange juice and milk. 

“Is interacting with them always going to be wild?” I ask, hackles still raised. James looks away, sighing a long-suffering sigh. 

“I wish I could say no, Miss Déjà.” I can’t help but laugh, really laugh, and set the plates next to the bacon so I could begin serving myself. 

I can only eat so much at the start of the day, so I go for the bacon, eggs, and a couple gravy-less biscuits. When I go to return to my chair, Erik is waiting behind it. I raise my eyebrow at him, and he shoots me with a disarming smile. 

“Let me get your chair, darling Déjà. And allow me to apologize once again.” He bows at the waist. I won't dignify it with a response, instead sitting down and allowing him to nudge the seat close to the table. Then, making enough noise to ensure I’m absolutely aware of him (as if I wasn’t already) he leans close to my face again. 

“I hope you enjoy the meal. I made most of it myself,” he boasts. Matthew looks the most betrayed, his fingers lightly pressed to his collar as he tilts his head deeply to the left and squints at Erik. 

“Binch, don’t you start! Me, you, and James made brunch!” He snaps, and I snort into my biscuit. 

Erik’s fingers dig into the back of the chair, but, surprisingly, it’s James who snaps back. “It’s You, James and I, Matthew. You know better.” Emboldened by James, Erik stands up straight, smirking at the younger. 

“Little boys always make mistakes, don’t they?” I take my fork and smack the back of Erik’s hand, causing him to yelp and retreat from behind me to his own seat. Still holding the fork, I point it at Erik.

“Don’t be catty because you got called out in a lie.” Then I point it at James. “Don’t be a smartass, Matthew doesn’t need to be grammatically correct over a call out.” 

“Now, I would like to eat, wouldn’t you? Good, so shut up.” The two eldest scolded, they eat silently, while Matthew, properly vindicated, makes a show of enjoying his meal. 

Sam snickers. “Wow, looks like you met your match, eh James? I didn’t think anyone could out mother you.” I flick a crumb at him. It misses, but it catches his attention.

“Hey, hey. Fuck off. I’m trying to eat.” My smile is the most sarcastic I can muster, bouncing my fork on my middle finger with my thumb. Sam flips me the bird and I brush it off. 

After a solid minute of silence and not touching my food in the slightest, I sigh, rest my head in my hands. Matthew, who’s closest to me, puts his hand on my arm. “You alright? Something else starting to hurt?” 

“No, no, it’s just…I can’t pretend yesterday didn’t happen anymore for the sake of my anxiety. So, somebody explain what happened. What were y’all doing dying in my house? Why were you dying in my house?” Whatever bravado I had earlier is gone, replaced with my shaky hands and an elevated heartbeat.

“That’s a lot to unpack, Miss.” James sets his silverware down, drinking his orange juice from a coffee mug. I don’t question it right now. 

“Start at the beginning.” 

Sam groans from the other side of me. “Look, we were obviously attacked, and we chose the first empty house we saw to hide and heal. Not a hard concept, doofus.” 

“Sam, I’m gonna remove your fucking toes if you open your mouth again,” I hiss at the same time Erik quips, “Now you’re just being rude, Sam.” Erik then blinks at me with confused eyes at my oddly worded threat while Matthew snorts. 

James forcefully clears his throat. “What he meant to say was, we were ambushed by a …a gang, and were outnumbered and unprepared. Our only chance of survival was to run and hide, and your windows happened to be unlocked on the first floor, so we tumbled in and made it so far as the main doorway before collapsing. That’s how you found us.” 

“Thank you, James. That doesn’t really answer my questions, though. Why didn’t you call someone before you fell out? I mean, outside of knowing you apparently need kisses to heal, like some kind of incubi, you still could’ve called the cops for safekeeping while they investigated the attack.” 

“Well, dear, you answered your own question. Calling your human authorities and healers would only have drawn unnecessary attention. As we are incubi, we needed sexual energy to make a full recovery. That’s why it was so fortunate that you arrived when you did, lovely savior mine.” Erik’s explanation turned flirt almost went entirely through one ear and out the other. I was too focused on the possible context of ‘sexual energy’. 

I didn’t feel hurt or violated when I woke, but that could’ve been because they masked it. He just said they were incubi! And, given how they healed and the abilities they’d showcased, I had to take it as true. How far had they gone after I fell out? 

Damien’s voice cut through my rising panic, looking horrified at what he heard. “We would never, Déjà. Sexual energy isn’t what we took, just general energy. Kissing is an easier method of transfer, and what we go for instinctually. After we were stable, we made sure you were as well, and most importantly, safe. Please, don’t ever fear for your safety in that way with us.” He was the most trustworthy out of all of them, and his body language so clear that I knew he wasn’t lying. 

Releasing the breath that I didn’t know I was hiding, I unclenched my hands. “Alright, fine. So, you’re rogue incubi who walked in the wrong neighborhood. Is that what you’re telling me?” 

James hummed in agreement, and I threw my hands up. “So, what the hell are you doing in this realm? Don’t y’all have a realm of your own? What purpose did you have for coming into the human realm, if not what the biblical stories say of less-than-good-intentions?” 

They were all quiet, not sure how to explain, or maybe trying to build a collective lie. “Don’t try to sugar coat this. I’m in too deep already, I know. How long before some weird strangers come to my door demanding I tell what happened here?” 

Matthew slammed his hands on the table, staring his brothers down. “She’s right! Even if we don’t tell her anything, even if we just leave, she’ll still be hunted down by that devil gang! And so will we! We’re caught in a case of damned if we do, damned if we don’t. It’s not fair that she turn into fodder for those guys.” 

“Wait, what do you mean devil gang? I don’t much like the idea of becoming ‘fodder’ for anybody.” I searched James’ face, my brain declaring him the source for answers. 

He frowned deeply, his nails making a clicking pattern on the mug as he tried to think. “We didn’t come here to sightsee, Miss. We’re…technically runaways from home. Important runaways. And the people who want us back have most likely placed a bounty on our heads that have driven devil gangs like the one we encountered to start searching with haste.” 

“And because you came here, with a pretty obvious blood trail no doubt, they’ll also be on their way…” I finished, knowing I was right. “Fuck’s sake… so, where does that leave us?”

Again, nothing but silence. I swallowed a hard lump in my throat. “You could…you could stay here.” 

“Pardon?”   
“Stay. Here. With Me.” I let my gaze roam about the room, settling on each face.

“You can recover and form up a game plan, and if that devil gang gets here, I could really use your help in fending them off. After that, you can do whatever you want. I just don’t wanna become ‘fodder’ and make saving you pointless.” 

“This isn’t a simple favor you’re offering, Miss. I do hope you understand that?” James was giving me one last way out, but I was firm in my decision. 

“Yeah, I understand. All I ask is that you don’t do any actual sex-based incubi tricks without my consent and that you help around the house. It’s not that big, but with all of us living here, managing it by myself is gonna get overwhelming quick.” 

I could hear Sam groan at the prospect of earning his keep, but for the most part, they all seemed quite relieved at having a place to stay. I was nervous, but in the grand scheme of things, it would be nice to not be alone after feeling like that for so long. 

Hey, it wasn’t like I was going to the Christian idea of heaven anyway, what with my pagan ass and budding witchery. Why not house some incubi demons?


	4. Awkwardness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, where I try to avoid my new house-mates for the day.

After the general awkwardness of breakfast is over, I leave the kitchen to the incubi and head for the relative safety of my actual room, which is adjacent to my mother’s. It’s clearly been borrowed overnight, my sheets neater than I could ever make them. 

The walls are painted—or were supposed to be painted—to mimic the French flag, but my mother and I got the placement of the red and blue and wrong, so it looks more like Russia’s flag instead. Still, the aesthetic is overwhelmingly ‘French hipster’. It got me through high school and my first year of college alright. And it’ll still carry me because I can’t bear to paint over it so soon. 

I flop onto my bed before slowly working my way under the sheets, trying to hide as much of myself as I can while still having a breathing hole. I feel like I’m on the precipice of another breakdown, but the weight of numbness keeps me from committing. Which, in truth, works out ok for me, I don’t need any of the incubi to notice more of my mess right now.

Oh, there it is, the chest pains and shaky breathing, and a strong burning at the corners of my eyes. Fuck’s sake, Incubi? How does that even happen? How did they stumble into a dead-center-of-middle-class household and decide ‘this is fine’? I sniffle and whimper about the whole ordeal for a while before getting it together.

I need to go outside. Tend to the garden, maybe. Then take a good nap. Tossing the sheets off, I rise onto weary feet. I’m aware of every pull of my tendons and muscles as I walk to the glass sliding door that separates the back porch from the dining room. There is a tell-tale click of dog feet on the floor, and I look down to see my young boxers, trying to wiggle between me and the door. Poor things have probably been holding themselves since I got back—I make a mental note to check the house for any accidents—so I let them go free. My backyard is fenced, so I don’t have to pay much attention to where they run and play. 

The tingling of sunlight is blocked by the large oak tree that grows adjacent to the porch, which is two-storied to stay connected to my house. It’s home to plenty of critters and bugs, and the lower branches serve as shelves for my hanging plants. I’m comforted by the sight of their healthy leaves and blooms. I grab the stool that’s next to the door and slide it under the pots, so I can reach up and check the soil. Thanks to the recent rain, none of them need any watering, and I dust the wet earth from my fingers as I come back down. 

The door opens again, and I see James step out, eying the pots with interest. “I didn’t realize you had a garden, Miss.” 

I shrug, and gesture to the grass below. “The produce and shrubbery are down there, next to the shed.” I know less about growing food and managing trees than I do about flowers. The produce was my mother’s half of the garden. 

James walks out on the porch, all the way to the far railing, so he can get a glimpse of the produce section. He hums with interest, turns back to me with a clear interest. “Go ahead, I can’t really grow food anyways.” 

He walks back inside but comes back out with Erik in tow. The latter looks almost excited. “You have an active garden, dear?” I shift my weight from foot to foot, my interest rising in the face of his. “In so many words, why?”

Erik grins and lifts his hand. From the flatness of his palm comes a small bundle of clovers, with little fanfare or effort. He walks to the railing and lets them fall to the ground, where they settle as if they had always been there. I know I’m gawking like an idiot. “That’s…that’s really neat, Erik.” 

He preens, and I feel some my irritation with him lessen. He’s obnoxious is all. “I don’t have much luck with produce and shrubs, so if you wanna keep that going for my mother, power to you,” I offer, sort of like an olive branch because I don’t want to see my mother’s footprint in nature die off. 

Both incubi catch on that I’ve not claimed the produce as mine. “If that part of the garden is your mother’s, where is she? Does she not live with you?” James asks, and I swallow dryly. 

“She used to. She died just last week.” I’m used to the shocked, cold silence that follows revealing this. After telling strangers with official titles my situation over and over, I have to be used to this. 

“Our condolences, I promise to keep up her garden to the best of my availability,” James is so firm with his sudden promise that it catches me off guard, not enough that I don’t thank him, though. 

I start to feel awkward, standing in front of James and Erik like this, with nothing to occupy myself. I use my dogs as an escape, as they’ve been circling my feet waiting to back inside with me. 

“Yeah, well, I was just checking on my plants, seeing if they needed water. They’re fine, so I’m gonna head back in. Do what you want with the others,” I mumble, and they part to let me pass. 

A quick walk through the house shows that there are no accidents from the dogs, or, if there were, that they’ve been cleaned. That leaves me free to nap as long as my depression can stand—which, notably, is for the rest of the day. 

I wake in the late evening, the last of the sunset filtering through my window, which faces west. I have awful nap breath and cotton mouth, and I’ve overheated in my sleep to the point that my sheets and pillows are sweaty. It matches my state of mind. My cats enjoyed my warmth, though, from the weight I feel on my stomach and legs. I hate shaking them off, but I have to pee, and I’m hungry.

When I come out of the bathroom, bad breath handled with a good swish of straight mouthwash—the burn wakes me up in an instant—I hear the sounds of cooking and chatting. A part of me feels bad that I haven’t cooked yet; this is my house, and one of them already cooked breakfast, it’s only fair. But also, I could use the relief of not having to feed myself right now. 

There is no friendly escort this time. I peek in the kitchen to see Matthew cooking, instead of James—who is reading on the couch with Damien—no Sam or Erik, at least for now. Damien lifts his head when I come in, catching my thoughts. He sends a casual smile my way, the arm resting on the top of the couch waving me over. 

I’m hesitant, but the couch is comfy, and James’ voice carries well in my relatively acoustic house. With a little shrug and a yawn, I pad over and wait for Damien to adjust himself and James, so I can plop down. “Oh, hello again, Miss. I trust your nap was good?” 

James ought to have a British accent with a greeting like that. I smile nod and curl up on the armrest of the couch. “I’ve gotten used to taking them since I’ve started college. A good way to recover after one too many all-nighters.” They seem concerned, which is normal, but on them, I will admit it’s also charming. 

I tip my chin towards James’ hands. “What’cha reading?” He hums, flips the book in his hands so that I can see the cover. It’s one that I remember impulse buying in a book fair in middle school, only to be disappointed when I didn’t like it. Or the books that followed it. “Percy Jackson? I didn’t take you to be a young adult fiction sort of guy.”

“Oh, I’m not reading it for me, I’m reading it for Damien, who definitely is a young adult fiction sort of guy,” he explains, smiling and rolling his eyes playfully at the youngest. Damien sticks out his tongue in defiance. “I like what I like, fuck off.”

I give his arm a pat. “At least someone’s reading it. I like YA stuff, just not this series in particular.” Damien tilts his head, and his eyes turn to the bookshelf, where the rest of the series is lined up in order. 

“I didn’t like it, but my brothers did, so when new books came out I bought them. They always need to read more.” And now, they were never going to finish it. At least, I won’t get to hear them ramble about it if they ever do finish. There’s a lingering pause, but James doesn’t let it stay for too long.

He adjusts his position, turning so that he’s facing Damien and I a little better, pushes his glasses up his nose—making me reach up to do the same despite not wearing my glasses—and resumes reading. I can understand why Damien prefers James to read aloud: he has a voice that knows how to dictate, how to make characters come alive without doing silly voices or accents. He reads at a steady pace, too, something fast and rhythmic, like a metronome. 

I almost fall asleep again, but the smell of dinner keeps me awake, and later, the sound of Erik and Sam coming in from outside. Sam’s got his shirt off, which is tucked under his arm and quite damp. Erik has dust lining his nails, meaning he’d been well and truly invested in the garden. They each give me a little nod, too focused on getting themselves clean to cause a fuss. 

They’re both clean and refreshed by the time Matthew pops his head out of the faux doorway to announce dinner. Gently shooing away my cats, I get up to help Matthew set the table. He’d made apple pork and steamed veggies. “I didn’t even know we had apples. Are there any left over?” I look over my shoulder at him, then try to search the rest of the kitchen without dropping anything. 

Matthew clicks his tongue, “No, sorry! Next time I’ll buy more so you can have ‘em as a snack.” I at first want to jump on that chance to have a steady influx of the stuff, but then common-sense hops in, “Where did you get money to buy apples in the first place?”

He snorts, then, as we head out from the kitchen to the dining room, he leans down to my ear. “We can just magic up the money, short stuff,” he whispers as if sharing the greatest secret known to man. 

“Sure, as long as I don’t get in trouble because of something going wrong,” I warn him, and then we drop the subject to finish off the table. With everyone gathered around, we chat and eat. This time, there’s no great conflict or near fighting. Just a quiet, sleepy first dinner as a full house.

It’s not…awkward, but it’s far from comfortable. The urge to ask more questions is still there, as is the anxiety of having to answer questions in return. Right now, it’s better to let the shock go away, for the sake of the peace. 

As I’m washing the dishes with Damien, my phone rings. Quickly drying my hands, I go to answer and see it’s from my second aunt. With a deep frown, I pick it up. “What?”

Before last week, I found my aunt’s voice to be a soothing, sleepy sound. But right now, it was a liar’s voice. “Hey, niecey—

“Don’t call me that.”  
“Alright. I just wanted to check up on you. I heard you moved back home yesterday.”   
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just finished dinner. Won’t be in the mood for visitors, not for a while. So don’t ask.”

She hums, in a way that I know means she’s not going to ask because she’s arranged it to be a certainty. “That’s not what your father told me. Besides, I’m still your aunt, and family needs to stick together.” 

I huff roughly through my nose, tucking my phone between my neck and shoulder so I can clench my hands into the dish towel. “I don’t want company! And I certainly don’t want you or the Church in this house.”

“The Church won’t be coming. Just family. We’ll come over on Saturday for dinner, ok? You don’t have to worry about cooking anything unless you want to bake up a dessert or something.”

It takes everything in me not to curse the woman out, to swallow the lump in my throat and put a demure tone in my voice. “Yeah, fine, I’ll have the house prepped by then.” 

I can hear her feet shuffle across her hallway, most likely on her way to bed. She usually went to bed early. “Awesome. Can’t wait to see you! Love you much.”

“Goodnight, Juanita.” I cut the call, and gently set my phone back on the counter. I only just now realize I’m alone in the kitchen, meaning Damien must’ve left to give me some privacy. I use it to cry some frustration out of me, then I crush some of the plastic Tupperware for a bit. They pop back into place no matter what, so I can afford to mistreat them.

I’m going to have to learn how to be like the Tupperware.


End file.
